Call and Answer
by sonsofmogh
Summary: After his stint as a demon, Dean has a lot to think about. However, what weighs on his mind the most is not something he lost; it's something he isn't sure he ever had.


Dean and Sam left Flint, Michigan and hit the road for three weeks straight — a first for them in a long time. They cut a swath through the Midwest, ganking monsters with a purpose they hadn't felt in years. Werewolves, vampires, some scary-ass thing they didn't recognize but managed to kill nonetheless, and even a wendigo were among their greatest hits during this marathon hunt.

After all that, life at the Men of Letters bunker felt alien to Dean.

As he lay on his almost hedonistic memory foam mattress, Dean stared at the uniform tiles on the ceiling before rolling to his side. Thinking about things that weren't fanged, clawed, or otherwise in the past few weeks had not been an option, but now in the quiet of the Batcave and his own head, Dean couldn't help but find his mind drifting back to the weirdest episode of "This Is Your Life" in history.

He thought about a lot of things at once: the little wooden Samulet dangling from the Impala's rear view mirror, teenage girls singing about his life like it was some grand adventure and not a freak show, and a few other things he wasn't sure he could ever say out loud.

He thought about Castiel. Not the one with tulle wings and a fresh face; the world-weary one living on borrowed time with borrowed grace.

Dean wondered how long it had taken him to truly understand what was happening with his best friend and how serious it really was. Cas was dying. Sure, Cas had been "dead" before, but it never actually stuck because someone out there either wanted or needed him to stay alive. But that was over now, and Cas's life was slowly wilting away. Dean might even outlive him, and something about that possibility crushed his lungs into inaction.

Cas had waited for him the night Zachariah had zapped Dean into 2014. No matter how many times Dean's mind had briefly flitted to that short little number from the girls' musical, it still did not compute. This seemingly eternal being, who had been around since before man crawled out of the primordial soup, stood by the roadside for hours simply because Dean had asked him to.

He never knew Cas had done that. He might have if he had taken Charlie up on her offer to download him a copy of Chuck's unpublished series of books. From what little he had been able to stomach of Supernatural, Dean knew that the events were accurate down to the smallest of details. He might've even been able to understand some of what went on behind that smelly trenchcoat.

However, no matter how many times it had been said in passing, it had simply never occurred to Dean that Castiel could've had any feelings for him that were of the more-than-brotherly variety. Why would it? Waves of celestial intent didn't have crushes on angry, alcoholic killers. And Cas was practically a brother. Yet as he reiterated these things to himself, Dean felt something dull lodge in his throat.

Besides, Dean didn't know a damn thing about being "in love." He had fiercely cared for a few people — Sam, Cas, Bobby, Dad, and some others he knew better than to think about without a bottle in his hand. But regular love was what parents felt for their children, or maybe whatever peace Sam had found in Jess. It wasn't for on-again-off-again drunks with damaged psyches and daddy issues. That was wildly, stupidly, woefully neglecting the fact that Dean had spent most of the past six months as a murderous demon who hung out with the King of Hell for kicks.

Briefly, Dean's mind wandered to that strange little universe of Zachariah's where he had been a corporate douchebag. Did _that_ Dean know how to love anyone? Or maybe the Dean who dated the El Sol girl while jacked up on djinn juice. There was no way freshly un-demonized Dean Winchester had a clue.

With a frustrated grunt, Dean punched his pillow and rolled over to his other side.

Dean darkly hoped Sam lost sleep over dumb stuff like this, but knowing his little brother, he was probably dreaming of rescuing puppies in Africa while ladling gruel at a soup kitchen. Dean knew Sam would understand what the hell love was; that didn't mean there was a chance in hell they would ever have that kind of conversation.

Cas would say something cryptic and ridiculous, and probably recite platypus poetry afterwards. The thought made the corner of Dean's mouth twitch into a half-smile. If anyone understood humanity less than Dean, it was definitely Cas.

Cas. _Castiel_. Dean mouthed the words as he found himself wondering whether Cas could even hear his prayers anymore. They only ever talked on the phone, and their conversations were always cut short by Cas's refusal to admit the extent of his failing health. Then Dean turned into a demon and forgot how to be human just long enough to keep himself up at night, hoping he could even _remember_ what it's like to be a person again.

Sighing heavily, Dean sat up and hung his legs over the side of the bed, his shoulders hunched with the weight of his thoughts. "Cas," he said shakily. "I don't know if you can hear me, man, but we used to do this a lot. I would spill my guts to every freakin' angel that ever existed, just to talk to you."

Dean rubbed his face roughly with his hands. "God, I suck at this."

He closed his eyes. "Cas, I need your help." Dean's voice cracked as he said his best friend's name. "I don't know if I'm even human anymore. You know me better than anybody, so if anyone could tell, it would be you. Sam likes to pretend everything is okay again, but the Mark ain't gone and I ain't exactly normal right now.

"But you got your issues, just like I got mine." Dean's eyes opened as his gaze directed towards the ceiling. "Maybe we're both too screwed up to help each other. I don't even know if I'm worth saving at this point, after all the crap that I've done. That don't mean that I won't help you.

"Whatever you need, Cas. Whatever you need, I'm there. I miss you, man."

Dean's voice had dwindled down to barely more than a whisper as the room answered him with a hollow silence. Without another word, he slid back beneath the covers. He counted the ceiling tiles again.


End file.
